George's Grand Tour (10 page)

Monday 6 October

Forêt de Paimpont (Ille-et-Vilaine)-Nantes (Loire-Atlantique)

Charles went down to breakfast; his joints ached, his back hurt and he had had a terrible night's sleep. The mattress had been awful, he was going to say something to the receptionist – except that they were leaving that morning and actually there wasn't much point. When he got to the ground floor he was distracted from his train of thought by the melodious sounds of a shouting match. It didn't take him long to make out George's voice.

‘Seriously,' George berated the receptionist, ‘if we're not paying for a good bed, what the heck are we paying for? Tell me, what are those forty-seven euros for exactly, the paintings on the walls? Because I don't know if you've noticed, but it's not exactly the Louvre here! Or are we paying for the sound of the little birdies? Because I don't mind telling you they were drowned out by the toilet flush – I'd have thought there were
better things to listen to in the countryside! I didn't use the TV, your breakfast is only good enough for sparrows, so would you please be good enough to have my mattress changed, pronto. Has the thing been changed since the war? The first or the second?'

‘I'm sorry, Monsieur, it's just … the credit crunch—'

‘Oh, that's a good one, that is! I knew the financial crisis was keeping people up at night but this is taking the joke a bit far! Madame, the credit crunch, the credit crunch!' he said, waving his arms around melodramatically. ‘And what sort of crisis is going on here, if I may be so bold? It's a crisis of common sense, that's what! And don't try and tell me this hasn't been going on for years. So before I have a crisis of my own, I'd advise you to get a wriggle on and get me a first-class replacement! With springs and goose down and all the rest of it! And preferably before Christmas! Thank you, and good day!'

George turned on his heel and almost collided with Charles, who took him by the arm and whispered to him:

‘But George, we're leaving this morning, what do you care whether they change your mattress or not?'

‘Oh no, I'm catching up on the sleep I missed; I'm going to take a siesta this afternoon and that's final! We'll leave when we leave. I'm going back to bed as soon as this young lady finds me something that actually resembles one!'

George marched into the breakfast room and helped himself to an enormous, overflowing bowl of cornflakes. It was the first time Charles had seen George eat cereal, but it occurred to him that there were times in life when you just wanted a big bowl of whatever you could get, and this was one of those moments.

Neither of them spoke during breakfast. George grumbled
something and, almost instinctively, reached for his phone in his jacket pocket. He rapidly typed a message and sent it with a brisk click. It was tacitly understood that they would drive to Nantes as soon as George had caught up on his missed sleep. They'd drive through the night if they had to.

At last the receptionist came up to George and offered him complimentary use of the best room in the hotel until the end of the day, or even until the next morning if he wanted. The offer was duly and gracefully accepted. George tried the bed and couldn't help grinning. It was sublime. Charles took the opportunity to remind him that he hadn't got any shut-eye either, so they both lay down in the king-size bed. George demonstrated just how seriously he was taking the nap by putting on his striped pyjamas and placing his slippers next to the bed. He fell asleep as soon as he'd sent Adèle a text.

He was woken up by the sound of his telephone ringing. He picked up before he remembered where he was or what time it was.

‘Hello, George? It's Ginette here,' she said cheerfully.

‘Oh, Ginette.'

‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm not disturbing you, am I?'

‘Err … no.'

‘OK, good, I just wanted to arrange where to meet tomorrow.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘How about half past twelve at your hotel? Would that be alright?'

‘Yes, yes.'

‘Good. And you're still planning to stay at the Hôtel de France, aren't you?'

‘Yes.'

‘OK, so twelve-thirty then,' said Ginette.

‘Yes.'

‘See you tomorrow then,' she said, sounding much less perky now.

‘See you tomorrow, uh, Ginette.'

George was now completely awake, and utterly confused. It was dark in the bedroom. Had he really been asleep for that long? Charles was lying in the darkness beside him. He checked the time on his phone: 18:47. He turned on the bedside lamp and woke Charles. The two men were startled by how long they had slept, but they were also starving; they hadn't eaten anything since the previous evening apart from the frugal hotel breakfast. They had missed two meals in two days; they had to make up for it. They wolfed down their dinner in silence before setting off again in the car. It occurred to George that they hadn't really made it up since the incident with the Bobet Museum and the forest of Brocéliande. Not a good sign.

They arrived at the hotel just before midnight and went up to their rooms without a word. George unpacked, put on his pyjamas and slid under the covers straight away. But, of course, it was impossible to fall asleep. Luckily Adèle was shooting all night and he had a whole list of things to tell her – all about Dinard, Brocéliande, the spat with the receptionist, the spat with Charles. Except that he probably wouldn't mention the fight with Charles, as he wasn't exactly proud of his behaviour. Even so, he
and his granddaughter were up half the night texting each other. One text in particular warmed the old man's heart:

Adèle 07/10/2008 03:14

Nite shoot difficult + lonely, so thx grndpa 4 spnding eve wiv me!

(Night shoot difficult and lonely, so thanks Grandpa for spending the evening with me!)

He lay there looking at the message long after they'd said goodnight.

George got up very late; Charles hadn't come to get him. He was clearly still sulking, which actually suited George just fine; it had allowed him to make up for the almost sleepless night and given him plenty of time to prepare for his date with Ginette. Ah, he had forgotten to tell Charles that his sister was arriving at lunchtime. Damn. It was almost eleven. He called reception.

‘Good morning, I'd like to leave a message for Monsieur Charles Lepensier, please.'

‘Yes, of course. If you'd just like to hold on, I'll put you through to his room,' said a polite female voice.

‘No, no!' he said hastily. ‘I don't want to disturb him. I just want to leave a message.'

‘Very good, Monsieur.'

‘OK, could you please tell him that Monsieur George Nicoleau
says Ginette will be at the hotel at half past twelve?'

‘Of course, I'll pass on the message.'

‘Thank you, Madame, goodbye.'

By five past twelve he was showered, shaved, and dressed, had put on cologne, dusted off his cap, cleaned his glasses and shined his shoes. In short, he was ready to go, but he still had almost half an hour to wait. He sat down on the bed and thought about turning on the television but it wouldn't have been like at home, with this complicated TV set and all these channels he didn't know.

Home … His little house in Chanteloup suddenly seemed very far away. He started thinking about all the reasons he had decided to do the Tour; they now all seemed rather dubious. But he brushed these thoughts from his mind: he'd have plenty of time to worry about all that later. For the moment he had to concentrate on waiting for Ginette.

At half past twelve he was sitting at a table in the hotel restaurant, fiddling with the corners of his napkin. He had been caught off guard when the waiter had asked, ‘And how many will you be?' He had told himself it was probably best to get a table for three, even if he was hoping that Charles wouldn't come. Not that he was sick of his company; they hadn't fallen out that badly. But he would have immediately picked up on George's nervousness, and that bothered George. Because he
was
nervous; he felt as though it was the first time he'd done something like this. Perhaps one never stopped getting butterflies on these occasions. Or perhaps he was just a little rusty when it came to matters of the heart; after all, he hadn't been on a date for about sixty years.

Ginette arrived at twelve thirty-two. George thought she looked even lovelier than the last time he had seen her. He couldn't put his finger on what had changed – perhaps it was her make-up, or her hair – but whatever it was, it had worked. She was wearing a pale pink blouse, an elegant pearl necklace and a red wool jacket with a rather modern cut, which showed her lightly tanned skin to its best advantage. They greeted each other. George, ever the gentleman, pulled out her chair for her. He tried to explain Charles's absence with the story of the bad mattress, the Louison Bobet Museum, the message that he'd left at reception and all the rest of it, but the more he talked, the more the whole thing was sounding like an elaborate ploy to be alone with her; he got so tangled up in it that finally Ginette cut him off.

‘Yes, I understand. Well, never mind, I'm sure we'll see him this afternoon.'

For once, George had no complaints about the meal. In fact, he was totally oblivious to everything: the drinks, the food, the other diners, whom he would doubtless otherwise have found pretentious, even the dubious modern art on the walls and the overloaded dessert trolley. He only had eyes for Ginette. And for himself; he was far more self-conscious than usual and he was not enjoying it. When the dessert course came around, he went quiet and stopped listening to Ginette, who was talking rather a lot. Not because he wasn't interested in what she had to say, but because he needed to concentrate very carefully on the manoeuvre he was about to carry out. This was not at all like riding a bike. He finally plucked up the courage to take Ginette's hand in his. Ginette stopped talking for a moment, then carried
on almost immediately, a little quicker this time. But she left her hand in George's.

After dessert, the conversation took a decidedly different turn. Without a doubt, George's gesture and Ginette's acceptance had radically altered the tone. Now they could, if they wanted to, talk about making plans together, as long as they remained appropriate. This was an extremely delicate phase: if said plans became too ambitious, they risked taking things too fast; on the other hand, no discussion of any plans at all might have implied that neither of them was taking this seriously. George felt about as relaxed as an amateur tightrope walker with rheumatism. Luckily, Ginette found the happy medium. She began by admitting that her social diary was packed full over the next few weeks; between friends that she had invited to stay with her and their reciprocal offers, she barely had a moment to herself. Nevertheless there was a small window in the whirlwind of her social arrangements where she would be at home alone for a week. And it wouldn't be too cold there yet, seeing as it was in fact the week after next. She was hoping to enjoy, she said to George, long walks along the beach and in the pine forests. Unfortunately, George was so nervous that he missed all the hints. It took a few more allusions, each less subtle than the previous one, before he understood – or rather, before he was sure he had not
mis
understood – that she was inviting him to Notre-Dame-de-Monts for the week after next.

It was all he could have hoped for. George felt satisfied with his tour of Brittany. All he wanted to do now was settle down in a comfortable place to enjoy his remaining years and send texts
to his granddaughter. If this place also had Ginette in it, the offer became absolutely irresistible.

George and Ginette spent the afternoon wandering through the streets of Nantes; Ginette very much enjoyed the chance to play tour guide. She showed him the cathedral and the winding little side streets around it. They passed the Musée des Beaux-Arts, but George warned her that he was not a great lover of museums. As an alternative, he suggested going to look at the courthouse, as he had seen a photo of it in one of the magazines in his hotel room. They took a taxi and arrived in front of a huge contemporary structure made of black metal, concrete and glass, which George, contrary to all expectation, was extremely impressed by; Ginette had assumed that his taste in architecture was rather more traditional. True to form, however, George still complained that in some places the detailing was a little sloppy. They spent a long time exploring the building, and George seized the chance to demonstrate his knowledge of construction and engineering. Ginette listened attentively. From the top of the courthouse, they were granted an incomparable view of Nantes and the Loire, which gushed beneath them in mud-coloured cascades.

In the late afternoon they called the hotel from George's mobile to find out if Charles had returned, but without success. They found a small gourmet restaurant just off Avenue Saint-André, a wide boulevard lined with elegant, understated buildings in the classical style. They enjoyed delicious food in a cosy atmosphere, and it was over a devilishly tasty chocolate fondant that their first day of romance came to a close.

George sat down on the edge of the bed surrounded by the imposing contemporary décor in the large, overpriced room. It was dark outside. He had sent his evening text to Adèle, but this time had not gone into too much detail about his day. He felt exhausted after all his adventures. Ginette had gone back to Notre-Dame-de-Monts, about an hour away from Nantes. At least this bed was comfortable. He had been seriously missing his home comforts since the beginning of the Tour. The room in Auray had been perfectly pleasant, and the one in Paimpont had been tolerable, in the end. The bedroom at Ginette's had been the most comfortable, and the breakfast there had been lively and convivial. Nevertheless, this epic journey was pretty tiring. He still hadn't quite recovered from the night at Paimpont and his body felt weary, although his spirits were high. He was worn out. Ginette's invitation couldn't have come at a better time.

George spent the evening sitting up in bed, going over the events of the day in his mind. How could he have forgotten all of his reasons for doing the Tour? He had spent so long devising this plan; the package wrapped in brown paper lying under his spare socks reminded him of all those reasons every time he packed and unpacked his bags. He had wanted to do the Tour to escape the agonisingly slow passing of time, to hurry destiny along. To be done with it all.

But that had been before. Before Ginette, before Adèle, before Brittany and its unexpected treasures, before his picnics with Charles, before he'd had a chance to discover that he still had some life left in him. Before. Before all of this he had thought his
tank was empty. But now he knew there were still a few drops left to use. Perhaps even more than just a few drops. So why not share them? Calmly, unhurriedly. There was no rush, after all.

And so it was that George decided to end his Tour de France there. It was a surrender that ought to have been announced as a triumph.